


Mama is sick

by ScribblesInTheMargins



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Gen, References to Illness, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-12
Updated: 2018-05-12
Packaged: 2020-03-01 15:17:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18802954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScribblesInTheMargins/pseuds/ScribblesInTheMargins
Summary: (this is a little drabble that was written to fit the continuity of Tourmaline, but really is a sad little stand alone.Originally published as a second chapter when I was going to have all the short things not in the same story as one post, I am moving this off to its own thing to separate the stories.  So if you thought you already read this, you probably did.





	Mama is sick

**Author's Note:**

> Shaved head, sad, lonely, 5-year-old Yuri.

It was the middle of summer in Moscow, oppressive heat and days without a hint of wind to lift the stagnant air  Next year, little Yura would be starting school, finally old enough, and he was so excited for that. He had finally turned five, but even so, he didn't really have friends.  He'd been living with his grandfather for a few months now, and it was so nice, even if it had meant moving to the other side of town. He knew he should miss his Mama though.  Sometimes, he admitted to himself that he didn't miss her, and those were the times that Yura felt guilty.

 

It was Sunday, and the air inside the church clung to him, so stale and sweltering.  The building, crowded to near capacity, felt as if people were pressing to him from every side.  That didn't stop his grandfather though, no, little Yura's hand was firmly held by that much larger and wrinkled one as his grandfather exchanged some shiny coins for a few wax candles.  As the church was filling up, little Yura was led to the front, to the other candles, already burning, tendrils of wax melting down their sides.

 

Even with all his hair shaved off, just the slightest bit of fuzz on his head, Yura was still too hot, a bit of sweat dripping down his forehead as his grandfather picked him up, balancing the boy on one hip as the old man lit two of the three candles, kissing each one before setting it in the sand to burn with the others, one for Yuri's mother and one for Yuri's grandmother.

 

Then the final, thin, wax candle was placed in the boy's hand, _"Kiss it, Yuratchka, for your mother."_  

 

He knew it was meant to be a prayer from him for his mother, that she would get well and be home soon, home to be with him again.  He didn't understand what was wrong, or why she was sick. He knew she was sick, Grandpa told him that all the time.  He knew it was bad, whatever it was. They weren't supposed to talk about it to anyone.

 

His big, blue-green eyes looked at the candle, and he pressed his lips to the wax.  He didn't pray how his grandfather wanted him to. Instead, he prayed for winter, for ice again, to skate again, and most importantly, for his mother to never, ever come home again.

 

Grandpa said God could do so much and was so kind, so little Yura prayed.  Desperately, with all the heart a five-year-old could have. He'd give anything for his prayer to be answered, any deal.  No mother -- it was all his heart desired, he'd give up skating and winter and candy, anything, anything to make that prayer come true.  If God could make that happen, he'd pray for eternity.


End file.
